


A Tom And His Queen

by PurpleMoon3



Series: dresden_kink fills [5]
Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Author is ashamed, Bestiality, But Kinda Likes It, Cat POV, F/M, Harry doesn't know what she's messing with, Mister is the Kitty Kingpin of Chicago, Porn, Timeline Shenanigans, female!Harry, might be continued...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:51:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: Because there is a dearth of Mister/Harry, when Harry gets to pair up with every other male character, this fic is about that.





	

For the record, I would like it known that it was my den first. One of the windows had this handy little latch that when pressured, say by a healthy thirty pounds against the pane, would pop loose. After that it only took a shimmy and a shake and the below-ground cave was mine. It was a bit bare, yes, but I didn't need much. I've never been one of those _tame_ cats, and they can argue all they like, but I've seen them shiver under the bridge. I've heard them cry at their human's doors. I've defended my territory with _extreme_ prejudice against their fluffy inbred asses, and am not impressed.  
  
Anyway, as I was saying, it was my den first. Then the elder that cleaned it brought _her_ to see my home. Sadly, I was not present to defend my territory against the interloper. I'd had a little business to take care of across town, there was a beta with a shiny new collar trying to move up in rank, and wasn't able to get back until the furniture started showing up. Silly now that I think about it, but I should have realized the new _female_ scent criss-crossing my floor meant a little more than spring cleaning and a bug spray. I didn't meet Mistress until much later, but her _smell_. It was so different, unique, with a little zing that had me, embarrassingly enough, purring before I realized what was happening.  
  
But she was still an unknown wandering through the heart of my domain, and I could not let that pass. I may have stalked her. I may have warned off a few curious kittens with more force than necessary. I am not ashamed.  
  
And then she broke the latch. She locked me out of my own den, and I was so far gone into a hissing rage I could have been mistaken for those crazed descendants of Bast that wander from town to town mewing out the end of days. (As much as I loathe to admit it dogs do divinity much better than us felines.) The sound attracted her, and she came out, her little log smoking in hand, smelling of anxiety and starlight, and I jumped right off the garbage tin and onto her chest. I scratched and clawed, she let out a most satisfying yelp, and before she could regain her equilibrium I used her shoulder to spring board off of and into my den. Once I was securely ensconced beneath one of the new cushioned chairs _she_ had brought in I turned to survey my work.  
  
I'd had enough weight that my leap caused her to land on her ass, and several thin, red, bleeding lines decorated her upper chest, arms, and face. Wobbly, she stood, and marched back inside.  
  
She spent three hours trying to route me, but even with her renovations the den was mine and I knew more bolt holes than she could shake her funny glowing stick at. Eventually, she screeched something unintelligible and disappeared into the room I used to store my trophies -dead birds and such- within. When she didn't come out after several minutes, and I couldn't hear her moving around, I decided to get on with my own rest. When I awoke in that morning to the sound of a plate being slid across the cement floor -a peace offering- I decided I would tolerate her presence, her starlight and something else scent, a while longer.  
  
I think she might have been lonely. We cats do not feel the need for companionship the way humans or dogs do, but I could understand the concept. I had felt, on rare occasion, the horrible burn of emptiness when a fresh young queen is ready and waiting and calling but some idiot had the gall to put up a wall between me and my prospective mate.  
  
So, I accepted the sandwich. I enjoyed the _coke_ , and after we got over the initial hesitancy I enjoyed the attention. But I was, am, by no means a _tame_ cat. She opens the door for _me_. I go out when _I_ want to. And no matter what that dumb-ass spaniel in 3B says she didn't _name_ me. I'm not _her_ cat. If anything she's my human. She calls me Mister, and that isn't a _name_. It's a _Title_. Mister. And, well, we are cohabiting so if I'm her Mister then she's my Mistress. And I made sure everyone else who mattered knew it, too. Most cats mark their humans sparingly, showing alliance and claim, but I made sure to do it Every. Damn. Day. Morning and evening, I wound between her legs, and butted against her calves so hard she almost fell over. Slept in her bed and breathed on her face until my own scent saturated her intoxicating aroma.  
  
But it was worth it. No other cat would come within ten feet of her. Not without invitation. _My_ invitation.  
  
Then she brought home... Bob. I don't know exactly what Bob is. I don't particularly care, but he speaks Cat, or at least can read the hands-off signals I gave him, teeth bared and fur straight. If he remained in the below-under, then I could care less what she did with him. At least, that was what I told myself. Until he left the skull-that-is-not-a-skull after wheedling my Mistress about something, and entered _me_. Tried to take control of me. Me. Mister. _Tried_. See the emphasis I'm making, here?  
  
His little romp in my body did teach me something, though. The exact connotative and denotative meanings of the words _Fuck that_.  
  
But I could tell he was embarrassed, and I was curious, so we came to an accord, and went on our little errand so my Mistress -Harry, Bob corrected pointlessly- could trade for more _coke_ , and no I am not addicted. I just know what I like.  
  
I liked carbonation. I liked ham dipped in mustard and pickle relish. I liked her. I liked her smell, still do, and the way she would run her hands down my spine and use candles instead of those bright bulbs. I liked the way she kept things simple. Natural. My den was still mine, and she dragged home rugs like I dragged home mice and birds, setting them out. Decorating. Making it... ours.  
  
Bob could tell. Bob was intrigued. Bob whispered in my ear after we completed the mission and I roughed up a few stray toms that had gotten it into their heads I was becoming soft, and then we went and followed a different smell. Sex, no matter the species, is unmistakable. I slipped in and watched, though the lights were just as distracting as the women spinning and twirling on the raised platform. It reminded me of some courtship rituals I'd witnessed, but I somehow doubted there would be any egg making involved. Or, Bob gleefully pointed out, there would be egg making, but without the eggs.  
  
Bob taught me a lot. He used every opportunity to get out of his tiny portable den, and into me. He was worried about her, he explained, about stress. Someone with a sharp stick was stalking her. There was something hanging over her head, a doom or whatever, and he wanted her to go out and get laid. Getting laid was apparently her biggest problem, as her being nervous all the time -I remembered her glowing sticks, big and little- just made her look guilty and up-to-something to the Morgan, who wanted to cut off her head.  
  
I did not approve. If my Mistress had her head cut off, so too would be my coke flow. The coke must flow. And no, I don't stay up late waiting just to hear her reading out of her paperbacks. Why?  
  
The solution was clear, and Bob made it sound so reasonable. It was the next step in our relationship, after all, and while it was a little _odd_ it was by no means ground breaking. I was just asserting my position, my dominance, in a way Mistress could understand.  
  
When she came home one night bruised, fur everywhere, and barely standing, I decided to make my move. She washed the worst of the grime from her body in two minutes flat, fell on the bed, and passed out. I waited, and crept closer to her. She smelled different, but no less pleasant. Fire. Starlight. That special zing that was all her. I sniffed, letting my nose lead the way, and found it. But there was no mating scent, no pheromones wafting off telling me she was ready, and I almost didn't do it. But Bob had explained how humans were weird and different and had to... rev the engines? Well, I didn't need to understand the metaphors to get it done. I'm _Mister_. And that's all there is to it.  
  
I nestled between her legs with my claws out the tiniest bit, pricking at her exposed skin, and she moved in her sleep, bare thighs retreating from me, spreading her open. I sniffed again. At her core, the scent was overwhelming, and I could not stop the purr that rumbled out as I licked her. I combed her fur back, lapping up what water hadn't soaked into the bed, and found her folds. Different. Very different from the queens I usually entertained, but she was _mine_ and at that moment I didn't care. She tasted wonderful. Better than coke.  
  
I kept licking, knowing she was dead to the world, and slowly her body relaxed. She shifted, and then... yes. Sex. Arousal. I shivered as it rolled over me, and I rubbed my face in her, encouraging the juices to flow. She let out a breath in her sleep, a little gasp, and shifted my attentions up to the little nub Bob had said was one of the most important parts of the human female. I braced my forepaws on her pelvis bones and lowered my head, lapping at it. A glance told me she might be waking up: my Mistress' face screwed into an expression of sleepy confusion as the rough comb of my tongue stimulated the nub. Her lips parted, her eyelids fluttered, and her arousal skyrocketed.  
  
I watched, pleased, as her body melted beneath me, and climbed further onto her stomach as my own needs awoke. I'll admit, it was awkward at first. Lining everything up was a chore and a half, and when I managed it her eyes popped open with a scream. There had been resistance when I went in, but my hooks had taken care of it, and when she started squirming, one hand reaching out to grab me by the cuff, and I sunk my claws into the soft flesh of her belly, freezing her in place. Her eyes were wide, her chest heavy, and the faint scent of coppery blood mingled with the zing of her own energy. It ripple over me, teasing, and the body wants what the body wants.  
  
Bob was right. She needed this.  
  
A little moan that turned into pain filled hiss came out of her mouth as I finished up, and I continued my climb. Her body was flush, warm, and I could tell my fur was tickling her in all the right ways so I spread out to cover as much as possible. My forepaws kneaded her breasts, and they squished under my attentions, while I touched my nose to hers. I could taste salt. She had been crying. Unacceptable.  
  
Slowly, as if asking permission, her arms wrapped around me, holding me close, and I snuggled down between her breasts, batting at her nipples. Each contact caused a spike in her arousal, and I knew we were getting there. I licked at the nape of her neck, whiskers tickling her chin, and her body bucked as she squeezed me close, a sense of completeness crashing out and causing all the lights on the street to flicker.  
  
I am that good, and Harry hasn't stopped going to bed nude since.  
  
So, yeah, Mistress -Harry- is mine. My Queen. I have to look out for what's mine, what could have tossed her around like that, but as a rule we cats don't fight another's battle. We aren't pack animals. Still, I may have persuaded a few weaker minions to keep tabs on her, to report when one of the foreigners were causing too much trouble and helping out by knocking over a box or jar or something equally noise making at just the right moment.  
  
And then _he_ showed up. The tiger in human clothing. Oh, I always knew he was around in an abstract sense, but he stuck to human things and as long as he didn't interfere with the politics of the Clowder I didn't concern myself with the Outfit. But then the tabby from fifteenth reported that _he_ rolled up in his shiny black steed and bullied _my_ Mistress into it. His minions had been spotted following her. He was trying to poach what was mine. The _Gentleman_ was messing around in _Mister's_ territory, and I would not tolerate it.  
  
I consider it a point of professional pride that he has yet to discover who has been fucking with his security. Some piss here, chewed wires there, and let us not forget the ever popular slashed tires.  
  
But he doesn't bother my Harry anymore, not directly at least, so I count it as a win.


End file.
